What solemn sound the ear invades,
What wraps the land in sorrow’s shade?
From heaven the awful mandate flies:
The father of his country dies.
Where shall our nation turn its eye?
What help remains beneath the sky?
Our friend, protector, strength, and trust,
Lies low and moldering in the dust.
Where shall our nation turn its eye?
What help remains beneath the sky?
Our friend, protector, strength, and trust,
Lies low and moldering in the dust.